


laughter doesn't taste the same

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Execution, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Protective TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, and even then i'm subpar, and sees the butcher army about to execute techno, angst pog, but he runs away, it's all i'm capable of writing, oh well, tommy runs away from exile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28832505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: Tommy escapes Logstedshire on the very day the Butcher Army plans to execute Techno. He reaches L'Manberg just in time to see his brother in a metal cage, just in time to see his best friend orchestrating it all.Fundy cackles. Ranboo reprimands him. Tubbo speaks. Quackity waits.Techno stands, impassive.Tommy sprints.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 46
Kudos: 942





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> LOLLLLL I only have 8 trillion WIPs the next thing I need is definitely another distraction. Ughhh I'm a terrible person I need to finish something I start hahah
> 
> I wrote this all in one sitting and didn't feel like doing lore research, so you're going to have to bear with me on the finer details of the timeline. It'll work nicely if you don't think about it too hard lol. 
> 
> This is set, of course, on the day of Techno's planned execution, only Tommy simultaneously runs away from Dream and Logstedshire. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy! :D

Tommy runs. 

It’s late, and he’s tired, and he’s cold, and he’s hurt, and he can hardly see past the red haze, past the black fear, but he _runs_.

He leaves Dream behind him. He leaves everything behind him.

But, then, he doesn’t leave anything behind him, does he?

Everything is before him. Everything is waiting for him.

There is nothing left for him in Logstedshire. 

He runs.

///

Techno watches.

The alarms in his mind are ringing, blaring, screaming— _run, run, run_ —and he wants to, he _wants to_ , but he can’t, because he is sitting in a boat, and Tubbo is rowing, and Carl is behind him, and Quackity is holding a dagger to his mane.

He wants to run, but he can’t move, so he watches, thinks. Watches every facial expression, every action, every twitch. Thinks through every possible way this might go, every imaginable path, every viable solution.

He knows one thing for sure. Tubbo’s posture is relaxed. Quackity is smirking. Ranboo and Fundy are conversing in normal, unbothered tones.

They are confident.

And it shouldn’t make any sense. He beat half of them. He would have beaten _all_ of them, had he not fallen victim to friendship’s liability. And they clearly don’t underestimate him anymore—his wrists and ankles are bound, a gag’s been stuffed in his mouth, he’s been stripped of all of his armor, all of his weapons, all of his potions, both of his totems of undying... _everything._

Still. He is one, and they are four, and he just _destroyed_ them. They’re in no place to be confident.

It means one thing. 

They’ve found a loophole.

They’re taking him to trial, they say. They’re taking him to court, they say. He’ll be represented, they say.

He is not naive. He knows better.

There is L’Manbergian blood on his hands. His name is taboo in their country.

He knows better.

He has long paved his own path in this world. It is no different, now—he must manufacture his way to safety.

Retirement is overrated, anyway.

He watches.

///

Tommy hides.

Footsteps are creeping steadily toward him, and they are silent, slithering, slippery, like a skeleton, like a slime, but worse— _worse_ , so much worse—because these footsteps are engrained into the deepest, darkest depths of his mind. They haunt his nightmares, stain his daydreams. He sees them when he closes his eyes. He feels them in the bruises on his skin. He hears them in the echoes of all silence.

Dream is coming.

His breath quickens. It is a reaction he has become far too accustomed to these past weeks—it is incapacitating. If he allows it to control him, he will not survive.

Dream is coming. Dream is coming to punish him. To take him back. To…to kill him.

He isn’t sure which is the worst.

Breaking down is being taken back with Dream. Breaking down is being tortured, mind and body. 

Breaking down is death.

He cannot break down.

But rationality is fading. Its departure is hastened by the proximity of the lava. Sparks flick from the lake onto his skin. The heat is suffocating, the air heavy. 

Still, he slumps further toward it. Sweat bleeds from his skin. Netherrack scorches his back. It forms a little nook above his head, though, that conceals him from the main part of the bridge. He’d slipped into it as soon as he’d heard the ripple of the Logstedshire portal.

Dream is coming.

He doesn’t move.

The footsteps get closer, closer, and the heat is so dominating that it clouds his mind. It transports him to another time, another place, when he was crouching just like this, holding his breath just like this, only then he was shaking with laughter, not fear, hiding from Techno, not Dream, playing a game, not trying to stay alive.

He pretends that he is in that closet, under those coats. The air is cold. The fabric is soft. Wilbur is at his side, scowling, because he is the best hider in the family, he never loses, and, naturally, Tommy wants to win. Wilbur doesn’t like it, though; he hisses, “You need to find your own spots. Stop leeching off of me.”

And Tommy is six, not sixteen, so he sticks out his tongue. The room is dark, not bright with lava, so Wilbur cannot see. It doesn’t matter; they both think they got the last word, so they are both satisfied. 

Techno whips the door open seconds later, all cheeky superiority and suppressed laughter. “Idiots,” he deadpans. “I heard you from a mile away.”

And Tommy laughs, because he can’t hold in his laughter like Techno can, and because he isn’t crouched above a pool of death or ducking away from a god of death. He laughs, because he’s never had a reason not to. He laughs because hide-and-seek is fun, because the world is good, because he hasn’t yet learned that laughter is a gift, a privilege, given to those who haven’t witnessed the world’s cruelest atrocities.

He hasn't yet learned that laughter doesn't thrive in war. That laughter doesn’t survive death, torture, betrayal, _solitude_. That bitter laughter doesn't taste the same.

He laughed, then. In that closet, next to his brothers.

He doesn’t laugh now.

He hides.

///

Techno stares.

L’Manberg looks different than he remembers. Larger. Cleaner. Woodier.

It makes sense, he supposes. Wilbur was never the most organized among them—which is saying something, since Tommy is his comparison. Tubbo seems like the type to keep things polished. To keep things neat.

It makes more sense, he supposes, when it’s the only use for Tubbo's power. He made L’Manberg beautiful because he lost Tommy. He controls L’Manberg because he could not control Tommy.

Beneath the pretty surface, though, the marks of war remain. Frayed edges tug off of the flags waving in the sky. The guards patrolling the borders flinch in fear of their arrival—they have not been properly trained. Splinters stick out where the wood has not been sanded. Paint is chipping, crops are dying.

They are crumbling, but they are crumbling perfectly. 

Before he can further analyze their inevitable downfall, he is shoved in the back. He stumbles forward, scowls, straightens, and, since he cannot speak around his gag, glares.

Quackity meets his eye. He is smirking. 

“People to go, places to see,” Fundy says, and shoves him forward again.

“I don’t think you said that right,” Tubbo says. 

“You’re one to talk,” Fundy says, laughing.

“Hey,” Ranboo interjects. “Tubbo’s a very eloquent speaker.”

Fundy considers this. “I don’t think I care,” he says.

“I guess he doesn’t care,” Ranboo says.

Tubbo snorts. “Thanks, Ranboo.”

“I’m here to enlighten,” Ranboo says.

Quackity, who had been maneuvering Carl over the ramp, grabs his lead and starts down the dock. The others follow without thought, Techno in between them.

The walk is tedious, but Techno is nothing if not patient. They shove and jostle him, and he moves without complaint—thinking, always, _I see right through you. Transparency is a weakness. I see right through you. I know what you’re hiding. I know what you’re hiding._

And, as people jump out of their way in the streets—wide-eyed and slack-jawed as they watch their leaders drag a compliant Technoblade—yes, _the_ Technoblade _:_ criminal, monster, murderer—like an animal to slaughter—he works his mind. 

If— _if_ —he is granted a trial, it will be biased. His attorney will be L’Manbergian. The judge will be L’Manbergian. The decision will be made before the trial begins, and that decision will, at best, be life in prison.

He glances around him, though, and he doesn’t see mercy. He sees hatred.

Tubbo…Tubbo he might convince by claiming relation to Tommy. They are brothers, after all—Tubbo might find sympathy.

But war and death—Techno winces; he killed Tommy’s best friend; he blew up their land—scrape away at the heart’s inner layers. It is necessary, it is protection, else unanticipated tragedy will overwhelm you. The same thing has happened to him, to everyone he knows—war hardens. War deadens. War blackens.

And Tubbo…Tubbo exiled Tommy. His best friend. 

He’ll find no mercy in Tubbo. He’ll find no mercy in any of them.

No. His punishment will be death.

His conclusion is made as they turn a corner. It is, apparently, a significant corner, for the White House, in all its patched-up glory, suddenly looms before them. Something else looms in the distance, too, and it’s too far away to make out, but it’s made of metal…metal bars, maybe, and there’s a structure above it that—

Quackity yanks his shirt and spins him around.

“Focus here, pig boy,” Fundy says.

“Man,” Ranboo corrects. “He is technically a man.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes. He moves to stand at Quackity’s side, nudges Quackity’s shoulder. “Go on,” he says.

_I already know_ , he wants to say, but cannot.

_I’m not afraid,_ his eyes say, _but you should be. You’re making a mistake you cannot recover from_.

This is their trick. This is their moment. It culminates here, now, and they think he is stupid, but he thinks they are naive, and they are, because they underestimate him. They underestimated him before, and they are doing it again, but they already exploited Carl. They have nothing left to sway him.

“ _This_ ,” Quackity starts, all haughty grandeur, “is your trial.”

Techno doesn’t blink.

It surprises them, he thinks, his lack of reaction. It’s vindicating. 

Quackity clears his throat. “We, the Butcher Army, declare you an enemy to our state. Let it be written that you, Technoblade, have committed every conceivable offense—indeed, the _worst_ conceivable offenses—known to man. You are an anarchist. You are a murderer. You are a terror. Where you go, chaos follows, and, for the good of our nation and our nation’s people—whose safety must always be our utmost motivation—your threat must be eliminated, once and for all.”

Tubbo nods his approval. He watches Techno closely. “Do you deny these accusations?”

Techno rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” Tubbo says, flushing a little. “The gag, Fundy.”

Fundy removes his gag. He coughs, wipes his mouth on his shoulder.

“Do you deny these accusations?” Tubbo repeats.

“Might as well have left it in,” Techno says, glancing at the gag. “Nothing I say matters.”

Tubbo frowns. “You have a chance to defend yourself,” he says.

“You’ve already made your decision,” Techno says.

Tubbo shakes his head. “We believe in fair trials.”

“Just like you believe in fair fights?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Quackity, sensing a weakness in Tubbo’s arguments, steps forward, slices the conversation off. “He asked you a simple question, Technoblade. Do you or do you not deny these accusations?”

“I make no formal comment either way."

Quackity scoffs. “That’s answer enough."

“Is it?” he asks.

"Yes," Quackity says. "You're clearly guilty."

The ghost of a smirk tugs at his mouth. "Well, I deny the accusations.”

Quackity scowls. “Didn’t take you for a liar."

"Oh, really? I'm a murderer, an anarchist, and a threat, but you don't take me for a liar?"

Quackity glares. 

"It's something called _honor_ ," Fundy says, but Quackity glares at him, too—he trusts only himself to argue.

Techno thusly lets it slide. If Quackity isn't going to pay attention to the point, there's no point in exploiting it. “What’s the point in asking a question you’ve already answered for yourself?” he asks. “You’re just wasting everyone’s time.”

“Precious time, too,” Quackity says, grinning sharply. “Since there’s so little left of it.” 

Techno shrugs. “Time is relative,” he says. “But it’s moving awfully slow right now.”

“You know what? You’re right. Fundy, Tubbo, Ranboo, let’s go.”

They push him forward. People are crowding, now—Fundy has to walk ahead, push them out of the way. Techno’s totems stick out from his pocket, just like his armor glints off of Tubbo’s shoulders, just like his horse limps behind Quackity, just like his sword dangles in Ranboo’s grip. This is a museum, now. These are the onlookers; he is the exhibit. This is a circus, and he is the elephant in the center of the room. He is their show, their prize, their trophy. 

He has been worse. He doesn’t care.

They approach the structure he'd seen before. Despite his apathy, his confidence, wisps of fear creep into his mind. He pushes them away, _away_ , but the alarms ring, blare, scream— _death, death, death, death_ —because there is a cage, and it is meant for him—he is an animal; this is his slaughter—and there is a tower, and surely, surely death awaits him.

This is their trick; it is not a trick at all. He foresaw this, yet he has no defense against it.

They are planning to execute him.

He must get the totems back. There is no other way. If he fights, he loses. If he complies, he dies.

He must get the totems back.

Quackity grins. Fundy laughs. Ranboo hums.  Tubbo pales. The realization has hit him—he has just condemned his best friend’s brother to death—but he makes no move to slow their march.

Indeed, as they get closer, his suspicions are confirmed. An anvil peeks from above the wooden slab.

He stares.

///

Tommy swallows.

L’Manberg looks different than he remembers. Plainer. Dustier. Gloomier.

It doesn’t make any sense. Dream isn’t here to enforce his stupid laws, so why didn’t they make incredible progress? If they aren’t in war, if there isn’t even a threat, why isn’t it the beautiful, flourishing country that it was? 

He sees easily past the initial layers of decay—the fraying flags, the splintering wood, the chipping paint. He sees past the untrained guards and the overgrown crops.

His nation is dying 

Freedom is what L’Manberg was _founded_ on. Yet as he slumps through the shadows, he sees only bondage. The obsidian walls are gone, maybe, but the people are scared. They walk with their heads down, with their hoods up. They flinch at contact. They scatter at sound. If he wasn’t hiding from Dream, he doesn’t even think he’d need to hide. Everyone is too caught up in avoiding trouble, avoiding interruption—they wouldn’t notice him at all.

They are bone-thin. Their cheeks are hollow. Their eyes are sad. Their wrinkles are pronounced. Their pain is plain. Their fear is plainer. They are a million reflections of himself, and they scramble through the streets, into houses, away from the guards searching for disobedience.

There is no freedom here.

He follows the Prime Path without directly stepping on it. He will head out of L’Manberg to his house, he thinks, if he can manage to make it up the hill alive. He would take a back road if it wasn't physically impossible. He’s already got a severe limp. Violent pain shudders up his spine, radiates through his limbs.

At least he can breathe. He’ll be able to for some time, too, because after finding nothing in the Nether, Dream had gone back through the Logstedshire portal, apparently supposing that Tommy had tried to run through the forest there. 

It might be a trick—it probably is—but Tommy is far past caring. He is in _L’Manberg_ , now, and—

He stills.

Sudden, harsh shouting seeps from beyond the bakery before him. People flinch and rush away from the sound, into the nearest buildings, but he furrows his eyebrows. None of the voices are familiar—the distance is too large for him to make anything out—but it doesn’t seem like just some trifle. The shouts are strengthening, strengthening, and _he_ needs to use his strength, his better judgement to turn away, because nothing good comes in situations like these—as every L’Manbergian clearly knows—but he cannot.

Proper judgement has never been his strong suit.

He hesitates, and that might be progress, but another shout echoes, and he takes a step toward the cacophony. 

This is L’Manberg, after all. He must keep it safe or die trying.

He swallows.

///

Techno fails.

He is shoved into the metal cage. People watch from a short, fenced off distance away, like this is amusing, like they are excited. Tubbo starts a speech. Punz shows up and surprises, distracts them all, with threats of tridents and TNT. There is chaos, and Techno fights, because he loves Carl, but he needs the totems of undying.

He reaches for them. Fundy doesn’t notice.

But Fundy steps away, and they slip through his grasp.

He cannot chase after them. The cage is made of metal, and he is Technoblade, but even Technoblade cannot bend metal to his will.

It isn’t supposed to be this way. Technoblade doesn’t _fail_. It is a foreign, preposterous concept. It is the product of bitter jealousy, of wishful envy. People _want_ him to fail, but only because they do, and he never, ever does. 

Technoblade doesn’t _fail_.

He reaches for the totems. 

They slip through his grasp.

He fails.

///

Tommy can’t breathe.

He pushes through the crowds with increasing desperation, because he _recognizes_ the voices now. They belong to Punz and Ranboo and Fundy and Quackity and Tubbo—oh, Ender, _Tubbo_ —and all of a sudden he is sprinting, _sprinting_ , and he shoves people over, but he doesn’t care, _he doesn’t care_ —

He hasn’t a clue of what he’ll do. How he’ll help, _if_ he'll help, whether or not he’ll hide. All he knows is that the pain is ubiquitous, and it pushes him forward, forward, because there is pain waiting for him there, in their faces—shock, rejection, hatred—and if there is one universal truth, it is that pain breeds pain. He is in pain, and he will be in so, so, so much more pain—seeing Tubbo’s face, seeing Tubbo’s apathy—when he makes it through.

It doesn’t matter. He shoves and shoves and climbs a fence and stumbles into an open space and looks up at the scene. 

And then he can’t breathe.

He’s standing, first, and sinking, floating, drowning, dying—water, water everywhere; he can’t see, arrows fly, fly, and there’s an explosion of fireworks, a precursor to the hell they hadn’t faced, and his best friend, standing, falling, dying, in colors, everywhere, and vicious, violent anger, and he is screaming, and he can’t _breathe—Fight him, Tommy. Go on. Fight him. Get down there, in the pit. What’s stopping you? Fear? I see it in your face, Tommy. You’re afraid._

So he fights and fights, he’s been fighting his whole life, but he has no choice, now, for _Violence is the only universal language_ , and he and his brother had long been on separate wavelengths. He must fight, and there’s too much blood, but not anything like the blood weeks later: his brother, holding destruction like a snow globe—careless like it’s light, simple, like releasing it wouldn’t demolish everything they loved—land, home, _family_ —like he was above such worthless things, like it had only ever been him and his anarchy, like it wasn’t once _Me and you and Wilbur against the world, Tommy._ Like death was a blessing, and his brother was condescending in granting it. Like it was an honor, a privilege, for his hand of destruction to reach down and select a place to shatter. And laughing cruelly, grinning at their other brother, the one that he daren’t think about— _You want to be a hero, Tommy? Die like one_.

Speechlessness, near awe—flames, everywhere—and the sound so, so deafening, but the silence even louder. Blood rushing through his ears, blood pouring down his shirt, down Tubbo’s, down his brother’s back—he can see it through the cave, can see their father's diamond sword—but his other brother is unblemished and laughing, laughing, and it is the loudest of the noises, and he is crying, and he did not die like a hero, but this is dying, it must be, it cannot be anything else.

_You want to be a hero, Tommy? Die like one._

The memories are too powerful—he has not seen Technoblade since.

But a distinct voice yanks him back into the present, and he stares.

There, after all this time, stands his brother. In a cage like a—like an _animal_. Surrounded by metal bars, surrounded by the crowd, surrounded by…by Tubbo, and  Ranboo, Fundy, Quackity, and _Tubbo_.

Surrounded, too, by a pillar.

Someone is giving a speech. Technoblade is stone-faced and impassive, and Tommy hates him— _hates_ him, _hates him_ —but he stares at the pillar, and it is not just a pillar.

At its peak, an anvil sits atop a wooden slab.

_Die like one._

Technoblade is no hero, but Technoblade is going to die.

He can’t breathe.

///

Techno nods.

After all, why shouldn't he? Tubbo’s claims aren’t _lies_. Not by any stretch of the word. And he certainly won’t go out any other way—protesting, begging, screaming. He will not give them what they are surely looking for. He is no coward. 

He wants to be.

He will _not_ be, but he so, so badly wants to be.

His mouth is dry. His hands are shaking; he clenches them into fists. Sweat drips down the back of the neck, mocking him with movement, with freedom.

He stares straight ahead. The onlookers make it worse, but the fences are far enough away that he can’t make out any of their faces. It’s better this way—their expressions would only be relieved, joyful.

His mind is distant. Miles away with Phil. Years ago with Wilbur, with Tommy. When things were easier. When war was a legend Phil told to entertain. When illness was as laughable a fear as a death. 

He hears Tubbo vaguely: “—and hereby unanimously declare the immediate execution of the Blood God, Technoblade. We reinforce our—”

He nods.

///

Tommy sprints.

He cannot run, but he must run, because he cannot watch, cannot stare. He wants to hide; he cannot. He must sprint. He cannot swallow; his throat is raw.

He is frozen.

Fundy is cackling about vengeance. Ranboo is looking at him in reprimand— _Quiet_ , his eyes say. _Tubbo is speaking. We have an audience._

Quackity is walking toward a lever.

And Tommy cannot run, because his feet are frozen, but he _runs_. He runs, and he runs, and he _sprints_ , and he pictures Dream behind him, coming, capturing, _run, run, run_ —it is his mantra, it is his lifeblood. He must get there in time.

He does not watch. He does not hide. He does not stare—he cannot. He cannot swallow, either; his throat is raw. 

But, more than anything, he cannot fail.

His vision is white and his eyes are rolling back, back, and he is seconds away from passing out, but he cannot fail.

_ Die like one. _

He sprints.

///

Techno sees.

He cranes his neck up, and he sees the anvil. He looks down, and sees Q uackity beside the lever. 

Tubbo's speech has finished.

He sees.

///

Someone screams.

Quackity’s hand is on the lever.

A violent, guttural scream pierces the air, shatters the false levity. 

Tommy reaches the edge of their area.

They gape. They whisper their incredulity— _Tommy? What are—Tommy? What? What are you doing here? You aren’t—_ what?

He doesn’t listen. It takes a moment for him to realize that the scream was his own. His thoughts trudge through an ocean of molasses.

He doesn’t care. He stares at his brother.

"Tommy," Techno whispers, eyes as wide as music discs.

Tommy passes out.

Someone screams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to this :) Hope you enjoy!

Techno doesn’t hesitate. 

Later they'll tell him, _We didn’t know that was possible._

Neither did he. It shouldn’t have been.

But he’s heard tales of desperation. Of the hysterical strength that only anguished adrenaline supplies. Mothers wrestling elder guardians, cracking obsidian with their bare hands, lifting mine carts full of four tons of coal.

He doesn’t know how it is possible. He doesn’t know if it's supposed to be.

But one moment he’s standing behind the cage’s metal bars and the next he’s ripping the bars away.

Because he watched Tommy stumble to a halt. He watched Tommy stare at him in shock, in fear, in hatred, in love. He watched Tommy heave in breath after breath in futile attempt to revive his lungs. He watched Tommy sway on his feet.

He watched Tommy _collapse_.

Chaos erupted.

He didn’t watch.

He saw Tommy collapse, and he tore the metal bars away.

Later they’ll ask him, _How did you do it?_

He shrugs. He knows, but he doesn’t know.

Later they'll whisper, _It’s because he’s the Blood God. It gives him superhuman strength_.

They are wrong, but he sees the fear in their eyes and lets them believe they are right.

He is surrounded by people who Tommy’s fallen out of favor with. He is surrounded by people who despise him—the God of Blood, the anarchist, the murderer, the terrorist—more than anyone in the world.

He cannot let his brother fall into their hands. They will manipulate him. They will use him. They will hurt him. They will exile him.

_Again_.

If he has learned one thing in all his twenty-one years of life, it is that people do not change.

Tommy collapses.

He doesn’t hesitate.

///

Tommy coughs.

It’s a wet, hacking thing, pulled from the deepest caverns of his lungs, and he can feel water sloshing in his chest in places where it does not, should not belong, and he coughs and coughs and no one notices.

He is awake, but he isn’t. He can hear, but he can’t. He remembers, but he doesn’t.

Someone is shouting. Someone is—someone is holding him. He is not on the ground. This is what must have woken him up: he was lifted.

The world is hazy and white and…and pink? And there is hair in his face, but it is not his own, and his ears hurt because someone is shouting, shouting, right next to his ear— _If you follow us, I’ll kill you all._

_Please, just—please don’t leave. There’s a hospital here, and we can…we can work something out. Please, Technoablade. He’s my best friend._

_Yeah? Look where that got him._

Silence. Dreadful, dreadful silence, ’til Tommy’s coughs shatter the moment.

_If you follow us,_ the voice by his ear repeats, and it’s a snarl, shaking with fury, _fury_ , and he feels like he should be able to place its relevance, its timbre, but his mind isn’t present enough— _I will kill you all_.

He shivers and sweats and he can’t feel his legs, but he doesn’t have to walk anymore because someone is holding him, lifting him, securing him on a…a seat? Wrapping their arms around his back, pulling him into their chest, and they are warm, and he is cold, but he is sweating and he is burning, but they are warm, so it’s okay.

It’s okay. 

Someone snaps _Go, Carl,_ and the world jolts.

He coughs.

///

Techno rides.

Quackity, Fundy, and Ranboo jerk from their stupor and move to follow with shouts of _Don’t let him escape!_ and _Barricade the borders!_ and _Call the cavalry!_

One voice rings above them all. 

“ _No._ ”

He doesn’t see their reaction because Carl is galloping away, but the stunned silence that follows the pronouncement gives him idea enough.

It is Tubbo’s voice. Tubbo’s word, Tubbo’s law…but it is _Tubbo_ , and he has never had the strongest convictions.

They will follow him. 

He leans forward in the saddle, holding Tommy closer. 

He rides.

///

Tommy blinks. 

“Tommy,” someone whispers, urgent and breathless. “Wake up, Tommy. They’re almost here.”

A hand is slapping his cheek over and over and over. Another hand is braced behind his head, holding him upright, keeping him stable. He blinks and the light hurts his eyes—it is bright, white; a reflection of a million mirrors, a million flecks of snow. 

“ _Tommy_ ,” the voice implores, and he blinks again, blinks the snow off his eyelids—it’s dropping; he feels it, now, pouring from the sky like mournful confetti, like obsessive warning— _run run run runrunrunrun_ —

And it all hits him at once.

His brother in metal; his friends—friends? _friends?_ —laughing, pointing, grinning, speaking; and running, running, _sprinting—_

Black.

The world is white now, though, and, as the haze slips from his eyes, he blinks his vision into focus.

Technoblade.

He isn't looking at him—checking his shoulder instead, tapping his fingers anxiously against the back of Tommy’s head, a countdown to their impending demise—but he’s holding him tight and his face is pale and they aren’t in a metal cage as far as Tommy can tell—which doesn’t shock him as much as it probably should since his brother is Technoblade, of course he escaped—but he’s never been the most observant, has he? And—

Technoblade glances back at him briefly, like he’s expecting to see the same thing he had moments prior—Tommy’s name ready on his lips: _Tommy, wake up. Tommy, we’ve got to go._

Technoblade does a double take.

He gapes up at his brother, who stares down at him, and he wants more than anything to _run_ , to _leave—_ because this isn’t Techno: idol, brother, friend; this is _Technoblade:_ fighter, enemy, villain—but Technoblade’s grip is strong, and he cannot move. 

He doesn’t think he’d make it, anyway. His limbs are frozen and weak. The mere idea of standing makes him want to pass out.

“You look like hell,” Technoblade mutters. “Get up. We’ve got to hurry.”

Tommy blinks.

///

Techno winces.

It hits him all at once—Tommy hates him.

_Hates_ him.

They are on nothing like good terms. They aren’t on terms at all. They haven’t spoken since…

Since Tommy swore to never to speak to him again.

He remembers the look on his face that day. It wasn’t like he'd expected: shock or disappointment or anger or hatred. 

It was _nothing_.

Apathetic. Empty. Lifeless.

And that was worse— _worse;_ so, so much worse—than shock or disappointment or anger or hatred, because Tommy is passionate and loud and furious and exuberant, not _apathetic_. Not _empty._ Not _lifeless, purposeless_. 

Tommy is a sun. A bright, blinding sun, and sometimes he shines, and sometimes he burns, but his brightness never, ever dims. 

And that day—that day that was seared into Techno’s mind by explosion after explosion, by scream after scream, by vindicated laugh after vindicated laugh—that day, the sun didn’t dim. 

It died.

Tommy didn’t do things half-way. He wasn’t angry, he was _furious;_ he wasn’t happy, he was _thrilled._ There was the cruelest black or there was the purest white. There was never, ever a hint of gray.

War came. Nothing changed. There was his side, and there was another side, and his side was good, always, and the other side was evil, always. 

But that day…that day broke him. 

Because Tommy thought Techno was good, and then he thought Techno was evil.

It didn’t suit his system. He couldn’t categorize it, couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t understand it. It didn’t fit. 

It broke him. The sun died.

His face was blank, distant, and Techno was laughing, laughing, until he saw that expression every night in his nightmares— _apathetic, empty, lifeless_ —and then he wasn’t laughing anymore.

“I’ll never speak to you again,” he had told Techno—his older brother, his role model—flatly, plainly, bluntly. 

And he turned away. He walked away. He brushed off Phil’s attempts at a hug. He stared steadfastly ahead, ignoring the tears paving pale lines in the blood on his face, ignoring the diamond sword buried in his brother’s chest, ignoring the ringing laughter signifying his brother’s victory.

He only stopped once. To turn back, to blankly see what he had lost.

He rounded a corner. He disappeared.

Techno hadn’t seen him since.

He sees him now, all shallow breaths and wide eyes and pale shivers, and, for the first time, he regrets it. 

All of it.

One arm is under Tommy’s shoulders; the other is leading Carl toward the forest. Carl isn’t exactly quiet, so they can’t ride anymore—the cavalry would jump on them in seconds. 

They walk. Tommy doesn’t speak.

And Tommy never was one to break a promise forged in fury, so Techno isn’t surprised.

He winces.

///

  
Tommy climbs.

Technoblade mutters instruction— _This one’s loose; This one’s fine; Don’t hold here; Don’t leave tracks—_ but Tommy hardly registers them. It’s not that his ears aren’t working, or even that his haze of sickness is too thick to hear things through. 

It’s that he can’t get past the voice.

The voice belonging to his _brother_ —or what’s left of that relationship, if anything at all. The voice that was never as fluent as Phil’s or as melodic as Wilbur’s. A unique voice—arid and acidic—brushing sarcasm, never feeling; tempting exasperation, never emotion.

A voice he’s long tried to forget. A voice he never could.

The climbing takes more than its fair toll, though, and by the time they’ve scaled one cliff, his hearing really _is_ stolen by the blood pounding in his ears. His legs are weak. His chest is tight. A veritable sierra of snow rises before them. He stares and stares and cannot imagine a world where he takes another step without collapsing. 

“Tommy,” Technoblade says, glancing over his shoulder. There is something in his voice too close to apathy to be concern, but too close to concern to be apathy. Tommy doesn't think he cares which it is. “You have to keep up.”

_You have to keep up_.

Keep up. The one thing he’s never been able to do. Always chasing, chasing—chasing land, chasing loss, chasing love, chasing _family_ …until someone chased him: up and down the Nether, up and down the beach, up and down L’Manberg, and it hurts— _hurts_ —to be asked the one thing he cannot do, to be asked the one thing he has never been able to do.

Because he never could keep up with any of them. Phil was always too witty, too wise. Techno was always too sour, too sharp. Wilbur was always too crafty, too cool.

_Of all things?_ he wants to mutter.

But he opens his mouth and his chest burns— _burns_ —and suddenly the world is falling apart again, but this time its fragments are falling _on_ him, on his head, on his chest, on his legs, and he’s shaking and the world is shaking and he’s falling, falling, falling, but he needs to _climb_ —

///

Techno snaps. 

His fingers are cold, but they still work—unlike Tommy’s, whose are blue, frozen, ice. He shifts so his grip is tighter around his unconscious brother— _brother,_ can he even call him that?—and snaps again, sharply, right in front of Tommy’s face.

“Wake up,” he says, voice shaking though he is not cold. “ _Tommy_. Wake up.”

The bruises on Tommy’s skin glow starker next to the snow. His skin is blanching, bluing. Scarlet blood from apparently re-opened wounds taint the white wonderland. 

Techno’s heart lodges in his throat. 

He looks at his brother, who’s blinking awake, and he _knows_.

Tommy does not have much longer. 

They are sailing on a frigid sea and a storm is brewing all around them and death is creeping up inside of them. There is no escape. They are cornered. They are hopeless. 

They will die.

Tommy coughs. Blood spatters onto the snow white ground.

Techno looks at his brother and only has one choice.

He snaps.

///

Tommy sinks.

The world is collapsing all around him. Walls of snow are rising. He cannot feel any part of his body. It is the cruelest kind of numbness because it covers _all_ the pain. He _knows_ it’s there, _knows_ it’s spreading, but he cannot do anything to stop it because he cannot even feel it. 

“Tommy,” Technoblade says, and Tommy blinks and he’s right there— _right_ there, in his face, hovering over him with a pale, grim determination that only comes with the wickedest dawns. “I know you’re hurt, but they’re coming. We have to keep moving.”

_I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t feel._

The thought emerges, then, from the depths of his subconscious— _I am going to die_.

It doesn’t scare him. It’s been a long time coming.

Technoblade must see some echo of the thought in his expression because his face hardens. “Get up,” he says roughly. “We can’t let them find us.”

But Tommy can read him, too. He sees it in his face, in his body language— _They are going to._

He doesn’t see a point in moving. No, more than that—he _can’t_ move. Technoblade can’t move him, either, because he’d abandoned his horse at the bottom of the cliff with a shattered expression, a rough apology, and an uttered prayer. 

He can’t move, and they are coming, and they will find him, and that is that.

“ _Tommy_ ,” Technoblade says, bracing him, pulling him up, voice violent with anger but weak with fear. He bears all of Tommy’s weight. “You need to—you need to stand, you need to—”

The word is there on the tip of his brother’s tongue, poised like a snowflake. Ready to shift, fall; ready to join its siblings in the heaps of sparkling snow.

_Live_.

_You need to live._

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

Tommy knows why. It’s obvious. Phrases like it could be said— _were_ said—before the world exploded. Before the blood and the bombs and the withers. Before the laughter. Before the tears.

But now? _Now?_ After _everything?_

_You need to live_.

Techno would have said the words.

Technoblade doesn’t.

And his brother’s conscience was always easy to weigh down, so Tommy knows why:

They wouldn’t taste the same.

The sentiment wouldn’t be a lie—no, he wasn’t so heartless as Tommy had once thought, in those days right after the fire. But it wouldn’t be the truth, either, because if Technoblade had wanted him to _live_ , he wouldn’t have crushed his land, killed his brother, plucked his hope and his love and his happiness right out from underneath him with an uproarious laugh and an eternal smirk.

_You want to be a hero, Tommy?_

If Technoblade had ever wanted him to live, he would have never uttered such a phrase. The horrible, haunting phrase that paints itself onto the wallpaper in Tommy’s room, onto the blades of grass in Logstedshire, onto the back of his eyelids, onto the ground where he walks and into the future he will lead. 

_Die like one_.

Not _live._ Not—not _live_ , or survive, or _be_. 

_Die like one_.

Technoblade clears his throat. “You can’t walk,” he says. 

Tommy blinks rapidly, trying to pull himself back into the moment. He coughs a wet cough from deep inside his chest.

“You need to stay awake,” Technoblade says, words slurring together in their quickness or in Tommy’s near-unconsciousness. “It won’t take long for me to get us there. Got it?”

Without waiting for confirmation—or even acknowledgement…though Tommy isn’t sure he could provide it, anyway—Technoblade hoists him off the ground.

Tommy doesn’t have the presence of mind to care. And he should— _should—_ because this is Technoblade, and Technoblade took _everything_ from him. So much so that he’d promised, once, to never speak to him again.

But he is cold and hurt and dying, maybe, and he cannot find the will to care.

He closes his eyes.

He sinks.

///

Techno decides.

On paper, it would be messy, ugly, horrible—having to weigh in the pasts and the fights and the hardships; having to weigh, ultimately, one life over another, one future over another. And he _is_ a god—the Blood God—but he’s never had to _play_ God; not like this, not with a beating heart in either hand and a fiery pit at his feet.

In reality, it is simple. 

Tommy is limp and lifeless in his arms. He needs warmth, food, shelter—needs, more than anything, to get away from the circumstances that brought him here. Allowing him to return to exile is not even a consideration because his bones are thin and fragile and his skin is gray and blue and purple, and _exile_ did that to him, nothing else, so, even though it is the hardest decision on paper, it is the simplest in his mind.

He treads through the snow toward a backup, a fail-safe, a place he and Phil had hoped they’d never have use for.

He readies the signal they’d hoped they’d never need.

He enters a cave and descends a ladder hidden by ice, by frost, and his footprints mark the snow so they do not have long, but he sends the signal and it’s all okay, because Phil has never disappointed him before. 

He starts a fire even though he knows the smoke will be seen crawling up, up, out through the cave’s entrance, because he and Phil were smart enough to anticipate needing a dozen of these hideouts in their land, but they were not smart enough to anticipate having to warm up a dying child while running from a blood-thirsty cavalry. 

He pulls a blanket from the emergency chest in the corner and lies Tommy on top of it, as near to the fire as he can manage. He is well versed in treating hypothermia—he replaces wet clothing and swaddles him in blankets; he fills a hollowed rock with water, heats it above the fire, and trickles it into Tommy’s mouth—but the knowledge gives him nothing, now, because Tommy’s skin is mottled with deep violet bruises and his limbs are bent at awkward angles and his cheeks are sunken, gaunt with hunger and neglect and Tommy passed out _before_ he was cold, so something else has obviously been happening, something else is obviously wrong—horribly, _horribly_ _wrong—_

Techno takes a breath.

And another.

And another.

He cannot afford to break down now, here, with the smoke giving their location away, with Tommy’s chest heaving with struggle.

There are two paths—one death or another death—and he has already decided, but he must decide again. Here, now. To keep his composure or to allow them both to die.

He decides.

///

Tommy wakes up. 

Someone is shaking him. He wants to push their arms away, but his are trapped under a mountain of fabric. His eyelids are heavy and he doesn’t know where he is and he blinks blearily at the person above him—to no avail; he doesn’t recognize him.

“Tommy,” the man says. The voice is familiar; he cannot place it. “You have to stay with me. It won’t be much longer.”

It comes rushing back in one fell swoop—all of it, _all of it_ —and his eyes widen in fear. 

He knows where he is. He is in exile. He has finally splintered the last nerve of his only friend, of his _greatest enemy—_

“ _Dream?”_ he breathes.

Dream’s face contorts in horror.

“Oh, Ender,” Dream mutters. Then, louder: “No, Tommy. It’s—it’s me. Technobla— _Techno_. Your brother.”

Tommy blinks.

“You’re confused,” Dream says. “It’s—it’s normal. It’s okay. Just—stay awake for me, yeah?”

“Where’s my armor?” Tommy asks through a hurricane of coughs. Blood drips like drool from the corner of his mouth. “Did you—did you burn it already?”

Dream’s face darkens. Tommy’s eyes clear, slightly, and he sees Dream has died his hair pink. It’s nice. It reminds him of…of…

“What did he do to you?” Dream hisses. “I’ll kill him.”

Tommy recoils, eyes wide. “No. Please, _please_ —Ghostbur is my only friend. Please don’t—don’t hurt him—don’t hurt _me—”_

“Oh, _Ender_ , I’m sorry, Tommy,” Dream says, and the apology is ripped from deep in his chest like it’s from the past, like he knows Tommy won’t understand it but must say it anyway. “I’m so sorry. I won’t—you’re okay. Nothing’s going to happen to you now. You’re safe. Phil is coming and you’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Phil?” Tommy echoes, eyelids drooping. “Did he get the invitation?”

“I don’t—yes. He got the invitation, and—hey. _Hey_ , don’t fall asleep. Stay awake. Tommy— _Tommy—”_

“I’m tired,” he mumbles.

“Do _not_ fall asleep again. You can’t. Just—listen to my voice, yeah? Open your eyes. We’re in a cave. Do you feel the fire? It’s hot, right? You’re cold, but you’ll be warm soon. You’ll be with Phil. You’ll—you’ll be away from Dream, and—”

Tommy falls asleep.

///

Techno hears.

It approaches like a wave, like a tsunami. It pounds louder than his heartbeat, louder than his fear, louder than the echoes of Tommy’s words through his mind.

The cavalry has found them.

The shoutings come next, with Quackity’s at the helm— _The footprints stop here. Everyone off! Split up and search!_

Techno wraps his fingers around his sword.

They do not have long. The cavalry will see the smoke. The cavalry will not hesitate.

Techno will fight them. He will stay and he will fight them because his decision has already been made. 

But he cannot fight them yet.

He moves deeper into the cave, drags his hands along the wall, locates and triggers the tripwire he and Phil had spent hours rigging, and watches as the stone slides away to reveal a murky tunnel.

He strains his ears. No footsteps echo from inside. 

He resigns himself to his last resort. He strides back, snuffs out the fire, and lifts a still-swathed Tommy off the ground.

Quackity’s shouts get closer. Techno’s footsteps get faster.

He enters the tunnel. As he’s preparing to set Tommy down—leave him there, hide him there, while he fights the cavalry off; hoping, _praying_ that Phil comes—he freezes.

Hope and prayers aren’t necessary.

Techno stands in the tunnel, staring wide eyed into the darkness.

He hears.

///

Tommy flinches.

A jab to his abdomen is how he regains consciousness. It is so painful that he is yanked back into the moment, into the present, and he thinks it is intentional at first, looking up at Technoblade, but Technoblade is not looking down at him, so he knows it is not.

“Put me down,” he says weakly, and shudders—speaking grates at his throat.

Technoblade ignores him.

A faint roar is approaching. The sound is sharp in the silence. 

Sharper still is the ever-nearing click of boots.

“I left house arrest for this,” a voice says, and Tommy’s head whips so fast his vision turns white.“It better be worth it.”

“Phil?” Tommy croaks, words rugged and incoherent.

“You’re—you got the signal,” Technoblade says, and Tommy doesn’t think he’s being addressed. “You’re here.”

“Well, yes, that's the point of a—Oh, Ender,” Phil whispers, footsteps slamming to a halt. “Oh, _Ender,_ Techno. What’s happened?” 

“He needs help,” Technoblade says. There’s a desperate note to his voice. “We don’t have any time. You have to take him. You have to take him and _run_ , Phil, because they’re—they’re _coming_ , Phil—they’re _outside—”_

“Woah, woah,” Phil says. “Slow down. Who’s _they?”_

“Quackity and—and everyone from L’Manberg. They—”

“You were in _L’Manberg?”_

“It was an execution,” Technoblade says dismissively. “You _must_ take him, Phil. He’s going to—he’s going to—”

His voice turns nearly hysterical, so Phil says in his usual calming way, “Hand him over.”

Tommy blinks as he’s transferred into Phil’s arms. He watches him with wide eyes, wishing he could force his mouth to form the words it cannot. Phil looks down at him briefly, smiling a grave, solemn smile and brushing his hand over his forehead before glancing back at Technoblade sharply.

The movement jostles Tommy’s side.

He flinches.

///

Techno clenches his hands into fists.

Phil’s eyes are so wide that Techno can see them despite the enveloping darkness. 

The cavalry’s shouts have entered the cave.

“Is that the—”

“It’s them,” Technoblade hisses. “They’re going to take him back, Phil. You have to _go._ ”

“What are—but—Techno, what? You’re coming with us.”

No.

No, he is not, because he cannot. The cavalry will overwhelm them.

This is okay—this is expected. He knew this was coming. 

He has already decided.

“No,” Techno says, turning back to face the mouth of the tunnel—away from his brother, away from his father. “They’ll let him go if they have me.”

Phil chokes a laugh. “This isn’t the time for some _martyr_ complex, Techno—”

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

_This is the time for redemption._

“I’ll meet you at home,” he says.

“Techno—”

“ _Phil_ ,” Techno snaps—harsh, biting in his all-encompassing desperation. “Take him _now_. He’s going to _die_ unless you leave. Or, worse, they’ll take him again, and—I—he can’t—”

Techno cannot finish the sentence, and Phil cannot lighten the unspoken words.

He clenches his fists at his sides.

///

Tommy understands.

The silence beckons it into his mind—cruel, cruel understanding. Clarity hits him all at once, like the apex of a horrifying nightmare where running, _running_ isn’t ever fast enough to escape inevitable pain, inevitable _death_ , and the split second before you wake up is the cruelest of them all, because you know you are going to die.

Except this isn’t a nightmare. 

Except this isn’t a nightmare, and he isn’t going to wake up—he’s already awake; he’s _already awake_ —and Techno is walking straight to his death.

“Don’t listen to him,” Tommy gasps, jerking his arms out of the blanket and squirming in Phil’s grip. Phil is surprised—his grip loosens, and Tommy rattles to the floor. He collects himself easily in his desperation and turns to run after Techno—Techno, _Techno_ , his _brother_ , who’s back is turned in resignation, who’s fists are clenched in restraint, who’s feet are moving toward his grave like he doesn’t have any other choice, and he is going to _die_ , and Tommy can’t—Tommy can’t—

Phil grabs the back of his shirt before he can get any farther.

“He’s going to _die_ , Phil!” he screams, and Techno walks faster, disappears into the darkness.

There are tears on his cheeks now, sobs in his voice, and he can’t _breathe_ , can’t _think_ , and someone is screaming and it’s him, he knows, because his throat is stinging like it’s been scraped raw, and Phil wraps his arms around him, covers his mouth with a begging hand, and Tommy hangs off of his shoulder for dear life because he can hardly stand, but they should be running, they should be _sprinting_ after Techno, who’s walking to his _death—_

Phil must not understand.

The wall slides shut. All shreds of light disappear.

He glimpses Techno’s face before it does—it’s been lit by an approaching torch, by an approaching _fire_ , because the cavalry is here and Techno will surely burn—and sees only blankness.

Confined inside the walls, his screams echo and bounce and hurt both of their ears. He cannot hear them. 

Phil’s whispered pleadings beg him to stop, but Phil doesn’t understand—Techno is going to die.

_Techno is going to die_.

Tommy tries to tell him this, but his words are either garbled by volume or drowned by his tears, because Phil just slips an arm under his shoulders, lifts him up, and hurries deeper into the tunnel.

And his _everything_ hurts, but none of it matters because Techno is not with them.

Tommy does not understand.

///

  
Techno grips his sword.

His ears ring with the echo of Tommy’s screams, but he forces them away because he must focus, now. He must buy them enough time. 

He is one. They are one hundred, at least—maybe more.

His attempt at optimism— _You’ve faced worse_ —fails because he does not think he has. Not when his defeat costs two lives—his and another’s. 

His and his _brother’s_.

He stands and waits. They find him easily.

“Well,” Quackity grins, eyes red with blood-thirst. He is flanked on either side by four dozen soldiers. “It’s come to this, then. Just you and me.”

“I think you’ve miscounted,” Techno says dryly, glancing at the soldiers. His knuckles are white with the strength of his grip. “Though I see you’ve left your president behind.”

Quackity’s eyes narrow. “Tubbo had some business to take care of.”

“Did he?” Techno says. “Presidential business?”

“Yes,” Quackity says.

“Did he approve of your little escapade?” 

Quackity’s laugh is hearty. “Sure he did. He’d do anything to get Tommy back.”

“And you’d get anything to get me,” Techno says.

“Well, of course,” Quackity says, grinning, shrugging. “This is a long time coming.”

“I guess there’s only one question, then.”

“Oh?”

Techno shrugs one careless shoulder. “Who’s really president?”

Quackity’s grin twists into a snarl. 

“I dropped Tommy off ages ago,” Techno says. “You’re not stupid, Quackity. I’m sure you noticed the single set of footprints. Yet you _kept coming_. You knew I was the only one here, and you came anyway.”

Quackity narrows his eyes. 

“Tubbo was never president, was he? You’ve been calling the shots the entire time.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” Quackity sneers.

“He wants _peace_ ,” Techno says. “He’s just too young to understand how naive a dream it is.”

Quackity flushes with anger. “Who are you to speak of _peace?”_ he spits. “You’re a bigger threat to L’Manberg than Tommy ever was. I don’t care what happens to him as long as you die.”

He has had enough of conversation—he jerks his hand forward and the soldiers stampede forward.

Techno crouches, readying himself.

“No,” Quackity says, laughing. “No more fighting. You’re under arrest, Technoblade. You’re coming with us.”

The words don’t matter.

He grips his sword.

_///_

Tommy throws up. 

Phil has a hand on his shoulder and another holding back his hair—it’s lengthened in exile—and his whispered comforts are so _fake_ , so _false_ , so ridiculously untrue that Tommy throws up again.

The wall is smeared with his bile. The floor is painted with his blood.  He coughs and both splatter onto his shirt.

“Please, Phil,” he begs, voice raw. “He lied to you. He isn’t go—going to meet us back at—at the house because he’s—they’re gonna k— _kill_ him, Phil— _please_ —”

Despite the dizziness, despite the effort, he raises his head to look in Phil’s eyes, and he sees.

Phil already knows.

Phil _already knows_.

Phil—Phil _knew,_ because of course he did, because he’s _Phil_ —what does he not know?

Phil _knew_ , and his eyes are broken and his face is shattered and he _knew_ , and he chose Tommy over Techno or Techno chose Tommy over himself, and neither of those are _fair_ —none of this is _fair_ —because they aren’t the ones who have to live with the consequences, the burdens of that choice. They aren’t the ones who have to go on in a world without Techno—without his _brother_ —and even though he hates him— _hates_ him, _hates_ Technoblade—he _loves_ him, and he _needs_ him, please, _please_ —

He whips his head back to the wall. 

He throws up.

///

Techno has no chance.

There are too many of them. He tries to fight and fails, but he also _succeeds_ , because he blinks and he is on a horse, trodding through snow back to L’Manberg, trodding through snow away from Tommy.

Far, far away from Tommy.

His hands are cuffed behind his back and his face is pressed into the horse’s mane because his chest’s been tied with rope to the saddle and Quackity is laughing, laughing, but it’s okay because Tommy’s okay.

He’s going to die, but it’s okay because Tommy’s okay. 

It’s what he tells himself. This is his redemption. His breaths are stilted, uneven, and Quackity claimed there’d be no fighting but he is dripping liters of blood into the snow, leaving a scarlet trail—proof of his failure, of his success.

“I’m thinking a celebration,” Fundy calls joyously from his left. He had—unlike Ranboo, apparently, who hadn't come—been filled with the same thirst for vengeance as Quackity. “Tonight, maybe?”

“Oh, yeah?” Quackity returns from his right. They are in the front, he thinks, though he cannot see. “What’re you thinking to eat?”

“Pig,” Fundy says, and explodes in giddy, hysterical laughter.

_He’s still scared_ , Techno thinks. _After all of this, they’re still scared_.

The horses slam to a halt.

At first he thinks that _he’s_ intimidated them, but Quackity’s irritated shout— _Out of our way!—_ is addressing someone else. 

Techno surmises there is someone in front of their horses, and, after Quackity’s second _Out of our way now! We are on official government business!_ he further surmises that said someone has not moved.

Techno’s heart spasms, sputters to a halt.

It couldn’t—it isn’t _Phil_ , is it? It—it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t risk Tommy like that. He wouldn’t—he _wouldn’t_ —

“Let him go,” the someone calls, voice clear, polished, _familiar_.

It isn’t Phil—nor is it Tommy—but the fact does nothing to ease Techno’s nerves. Not after what Tommy had accidentally shared with him.

Quackity laughs. Quackity does not understand.

Techno cranes his neck and, despite the rope, angles his head to get a glimpse.

He is standing in the snow with his hood up—posture easy, comfortable. A sword is dangling from his left hand.

“This is your last warning,” Quackity says. “We will run you over if we have to.”

“Let him go.”

Quackity heaves a weighty sigh. “If you insist.” 

Laughing, he gestures for the horses to continue.

The man pulls down his hood.

Quackity stops laughing.

“I need him,” Dream says, words carrying over the field of snow. Clouded sunshine glints off of his mask. “Let him go.”

Quackity blanches.

Dream raises his sword. “This is your last warning,” he says, and Techno can hear the smirk in his voice. “I will go through you if I have to.”

Techno doesn’t know _why_ Dream’s here, or what he could possibly want, but he fiddles with the ropes around his wrists.

And Quackity is terrified, because Quackity understands.

If Techno can get the ropes undone—if he can get himself free—it will be Technoblade and Dream against one hundred soldiers.

He gets the ropes undone.

The cavalry has no chance. 

///

Tommy limps forward.

The walk is longer than he’d anticipated—but shorter, too, since he blinks and they are climbing a slope and Phil is whispering that this is their house, that all the tunnels intersect here, and Phil is pulling a door open.

He’s seen this house before. He can tell right away. It is the one a few miles from the beach. It is the one he visited in exile.

He doesn’t care. He brushes Phil’s help off as he ascends the ladder because he is weak with pain and exhaustion but he is so _angry_ at Phil that he can hardly see past the red filtering his vision, past the—

He lifts himself into the house's main room.

He freezes. 

He gapes, flounders, eyes wider than twin pools of blood, and they’re a mess, now—his emotions—like they’ve been scooped out of his soul and dumped into a blender, all of the little shards mixing and forcing themselves together, spitting back out in random fragments, and he can’t _breathe_ —

“What are _you_ doing here?” he demands.

The half-lifted trapdoor clatters to the floor. Tubbo whips to face him.

“ _Tommy_ ,” he breathes.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” 

Tubbo stares. “You’re alive,” he whispers.

Tommy’s nostrils flare. “ _No_ ,” he snaps. “No. You don’t get to—you don’t get to play the caring card. What are you _doing_ here?”

Tubbo gapes.

Phil puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. He shoves it off. 

“ _What are you doing here?”_ Tommy screams.

“I’m so—Ender, I’m so sorry, Tommy—I—”

“Sorry?” Tommy retorts, shaking with rage, fear, cold, excruciating pain. “ _Sorry?_ You think _sorry’s_ good enough? You _exiled_ me. You tried to—you tried to _murder_ my _brother.”_

All of the blood leaves Tubbo’s face. “I didn’t th—”

“ _Didn’t_ you?” 

Tubbo shakes, too, but with buried sobs. Tommy knows him too well to misunderstand. 

He doesn’t care.

“I—I’m sorry,” Tubbo says, begging, almost. “I just—I don’t have any idea what I’m—what I’m doing, and I—”

“Get _out,”_ Tommy hisses, voice lethal because Tubbo had sentenced his brother to death. The fury is making him dizzy—he braces himself against a tellingly silent Phil. “Get out _now_.”

“I can’t,” Tubbo whispers. Tears stream down his face. “They have—Tommy, they have Technoblade. They’re going to—they’re going to kill him.”

The information is not new. Still, he blanches.

“I’m getting armor,” Tubbo manages through the beginning of his sobs. “And potions. I stole a horse and found Carl at the bottom of the hill, and I—I’m getting armor. I know where they are. Their flanks are vulnerable. I can take—take them out little by little, and get to—get to Technoblade.”

Tommy stares.

Phil moves before he can. He flings chests open, grabbing armor at random and equipping it so quickly that neither of them have a chance to move.

“Take me,” Phil says to Tubbo, the weight of his wrong decision crashing over his head. Then, to Tommy—“You’re staying here.”

Tommy doesn't grace the command with a response. 

He limps toward the door.

///

Techno waits.

Bodies and dead horses litter the snow. Its pureness is startling, now, against the omnipresent blood stains in the silent clearing.

His sword is light in his hands. He flicks the blood off of it. It spatters over the white.

Harsh wind whips around his face. He pushes his hair out of his eyes so he can better see.

“You should’ve complied,” Dream says. “I gave you a chance.”

“I’m sorry,” Quackity says. Sobs rip from his chest. “Please. _Please_. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, I’ll—”

Dream tightens his grip on Quackity’s hair. He holds him like a puppet. He raises his sword like scissors about to cut the puppet’s strings.

Quackity whimpers, cowers.

Quackity looks at Techno in last, desperate attempt, and he remembers how he’d looked at Quackity, not hours ago. How he’d seen nothing but hatred. How he’d seen no mercy, no compassion.

Quackity looks at him and he expects to feel vindicated.

He does not.

Dream’s sword begins its tantalizing descent.

“Leave him,” Techno says—soft, like the snow; forceful, like the blood. 

Without relinquishing his grip, Dream raises his head. “I’m sorry?”

“Let him go,” Techno says.

“Who are you to decide who lives?” Dream asks.

“Who are you to decide who dies?” Techno counters.

Dream only pauses a moment before shoving Quackity away. He sheathes his sword.

_We are gods_ , Techno thinks, _but we are not meant to play God_.

Dream understands.

“This way,” Dream says, and pads toward a thick line of snowy spruce trees.

He follows.

///

Tommy stares.

The setting sun casts golden rays over the snow. 

It might be beautiful, if it wasn't the most horrifying thing he had ever seen.

“We need to go,” Phil murmurs, and his voice doesn’t belong here— _nothing_ belongs here, in the absolute silence, because that’s what this massacre deserves— _silence_.

New snow has buried some of the bodies, but the blood is evidence enough.

“What—what _happened?”_ Tubbo whispers.

_We were too late_ , Tommy wants to say, but he doesn’t know if it’s true.

He doesn’t—he can’t _think_ , can’t _see_ past the blood, past the bodies.

“Go, Carl,” Phils says, and kicks Carl’s side. Tubbo kicks his horse’s side. They ride away.

Tommy turns to try and stare, but Phil pushes his face back forwards.

He can physically feel the adrenaline draining from his body. Sudden waves of pain crash against him. He slumps back into Phil.

Phil wraps an arm around him to keep him secure.

“Don’t pass out on me,” Phil murmurs into his ear. “You’ve got to stay awake. It won’t take me long to get us back, okay?”

He swallows. Those were Technoblade’s exact words.

_Technoblade._

He doesn’t know if he lived. He doesn’t know if he died.

The scene of the clearing—of the _slaughter_ —is stitched into his eyelids, and the world fades away.

He closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought <3

**Author's Note:**

> Probably one more chapter after this...possibly two. :D
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought! <3


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